


you can feel it on the way home

by gustin_puckerman



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caitlin remembers. Post 1x12 "Crazy For You".</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can feel it on the way home

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings for these two dorks okay.

She remembered the night.

Not instantly, of course. But _eventually_. It's a thing she's learnt to discover after her first few hangovers―that, more often than not, she could remember most of the stuff that's happened the night before. It wasn't always a good thing, but she learned to accept it. Sometimes the parched memories came weeks later, sometimes it's just as soon as the hangover passed. But when she's _really_ lucky, not at all.

But yes, to get to the point, she remembered the night.

The fact that the dress hung there limply when she returned back home from the lab doesn't make it easier. (She was too hungover to be bothered with it in the morning, alright.) It came out slowly, these memories: the buzz, the white noises, and Barry's worry glances in between drinks.

And she remembered cool hand smoothing down her back after she ( _ew_ ) puked her stomach out at the corner of a parking lot approximately three kilometres away from the bar. She remembered cringing, wiping traces of her tainted saliva with the back of her hand before he ran and return with a napkin that she wasn't sure if it's even his (now that she's thought of it) and taking it from his offered hand as he nudged for her to make it to good use.

She wiped her mouth.

What was she supposed to do anyway?

And then she remembered long slim fingers still rubbing circles at the centre of her spine (not too low, no because she knew him, and he's not the type, of course he wasn't) but not too high either (to remind her that they're far past the point of just acquaintances) and his movements were gentle, soft, made to caress, to comfort, and she remembered hiccuping and wondered why on earth would Iris West ever give up on _this_?

"Ugh, that was gross." She whimpered into the napkin with a tiny whine, recalling his free hand coming up to pull back curtains of brown hair from falling into her eyes.

He looked calm. "That was― _close_."

"I'm sorry."

He smiled, a little, shaking his head with a subtly that baffled her every time and prompted, "That's okay," he told, dropping his hand. "You're okay."

"I don't..." She rubbed at her stomach, allowing herself to fall carelessly against his body and the pit of her stomach somersaulted when he seemingly caught her, two hands gentle on her waist. "... _feel_ okay."

She thought she heard him chuckle. "That, you don't."

Her breath caught when his breath tickled her ear, and her forehead dropped soon later to meet the hard bones under the skin of his shoulders, tiredness getting the best of her now, while his thumb moved, hooking just a little more securely around her hips. "C'mon, let's take you home." He'd said, a breath of lightness brushed his tone, and she suddenly felt like she could be dancing on the clouds.

"No running," she mumbled, shaking against the space of his shoulder and neck. "Just... one minute."

"Caitlin...?" He started, worry heavy in his tone.

"Shh Barry," she got herself on his side (because no, Caitlin, her stupid brain reminded: you're here to find yourself a romantic interest. Maybe. But not with one Mr. Allen, because he's―he's not _available_ , remember? Not to you, anyways.) Still leaning close―sides pressing, bodies flushing―oh, so _close_. But she didn't allow herself to think much of it. Can't, really. Won't. "Just... give me a minute, okay?"

He took her home.

She'd never doubt that he would. And she could still feel the coldness biting on her skin as he'd _flashed_ them half way through town to her apartment―in all honestly, it still took her by surprise on how she hadn't vomit again at such speed when her body's not made or trained to sustain it―and she remembered his presence. Alive and awake and careful eyes watching her, _guarding_. Smiling.

"G'night, Barry." She'd mumbled with a tired, crazy smile hovering her lips and remembered him squinting through the dark after he's turned the light off, remembered his thumb still going up and down her blanketed thigh in an attempt to soothe―and remembered how such simple act _worked_.

How quickly she relaxed.

But she's always been relaxed, at _ease_ if you may, whenever it's come to him. It's _Barry_. He's... when he's not out there stubbornly trying to get himself killed, he's... he's _good_. He's kind and nice and gentle and gosh, those _long_ _fingers_ ―and when he looked at her. She'd always liked the way he looked at her. It may not be in the way he's always been longingly stared at Iris, or how he'd admirably stare at Joe or Dr. Wells, but in his eyes, he'd somehow made her feel... like she's invincible.

Like a person too, of course. A person who's more than her sad sob story and genius mind and mothering-like blabbers. Yet all at the same time, _so much more_. Like she could... like she could take over the world, and he'd stand there and just be proud of her. Yeah.

She remembered that.

She remembered that the most. 

"Good night Caitlin," he'd looked at her again, and she'd wished she could lean forward and just―make him stay. Make him stay for _good_. But she was too tired, too sleepy, and he's already ready to walk away. So she lets him, and he said again: "I'll see you tomorrow." And she fell asleep.

(But yes, if you asked her properly, she'd say she remembers.

And quite frankly, if you push the truth out of her, she'd tell you she'll never ever want to forget.)


End file.
